The Dustman

When the toys are growing weary;

And the twilight gathers in,

When the nursery still re-echoes

With the children's merry din;

Then unseen, unheard, unnoticed,

Comes an old man up the stair,

Lightly to the children passes,

Lays his hand upon their hair.

Softly smiles the good old Dustman,

In their eyes the dust he throws,

Till their little heads are falling

And their eyelids gently close.

Then the Dustman very gently

Takes each little dimpled hand,

Leads them through the sweet green shadows,

Far away to Slumberland.

— Fred E. Weatherly